by MK Schiller
One of a kind, my ass.
Chapter 3
A soccer match played on the large-screen television. Several men cheered as a goal was made. There were many foreigners staying at the Shalimar. They ranged from businessmen to Marines, but it was easy to spot the mountain climbers. Adrenaline and energy followed them like an atmospheric cloud. It permeated the air around them with equal parts excitement and desperation. Tristan knew most of them. The climbing world wasn’t huge. They didn’t have conventions or anything, but they would see each other at venues or read about each other’s climbs. Many of them wrote books and blogs, chronicling their adventures.
Most of the climbers had returned from K2 or its surrounding peaks, already telling their tales of success or failure. Only twenty-six people had summited this year, a fairly low turnout, even for the Savage Mountain. Normally, Tristan would be sitting with his fellow alpinists, soaking up the stories of great mountain lure and heeding the warnings for future expeditions. But at this late stage, there weren’t many groups heading out.
Tristan spotted Elliot as he walked in and waved him over. Elliot wasn’t Tristan’s biological uncle, but he was his father’s best friend since childhood and Tristan’s godfather. In many ways, it was Elliot who’d kindled Tristan and Drew’s passion for adventure by taking them rock climbing at Jack’s Canyon, hiking though Sedona, and orienteering in the painted desert. All the Sinclair children had referred to him as uncle. Elliot Cromwell was a tall man with more salt than pepper in his thinning hair. There were noticeable crinkles around his gray eyes, no doubt the effects of his stressful job.
“Tristan,” he greeted, clapping Tristan on the back before cringing slightly. Every time they saw each other in recent years, Elliot looked surprised, as if he expected Tristan to be the clean-shaven youth of ten years ago. Not a tall man who sported shoulder-length hair and a rough exterior.
“Son, you look like an extra on Game of Thrones.”
Tristan arched his brow. “Is that a movie?”
Elliot laughed and took a seat. “You know nothing, Tristan Sinclair. Never mind, it’s not important.”
They exchanged a few pleasantries about the merciless heatwave and Elliot’s job as Counsel to the US Embassy in Pakistan. Elliot ordered a plate of samosas and a carrot juice. When the conversation shifted to his family, Tristan grew uncomfortable.
“I thought I’d see you more often, since we’re both on this side of the world. As it turns out, I speak to Julie more than you.”
Tristan literally bit his tongue. Ouch.
Instead of continuing down guilt trip ally at breakneck speed, Tristan took a detour and reached for the cloth bag by his feet. “Well, glad we could make time to see each other now.” He took out the large box inside and set the wrapped packaged between them.
“What is this?” Elliot asked.
“It’s for you. A gift.”
Elliot regarded it skeptically. “Hope you didn’t buy it around here. It’s almost a point of pride to swindle a westerner in some of the shops.”
No shit.
“Got it in Nepal. It’s legit. I know the artist. Open it.”
Elliot tore through the plain parchment paper. His eyes widened as he took in the chess set. He opened the wooden box and examined the intricately carved pieces inside. He held the white knight up to the light and let out a low whistle. “This is some real craftsmanship.”
“I remember you have a collection.”
“I do. Thank you, Tristan. I’ll treasure it.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Do you still play?”
Tristan shrugged. “Not for years.”
“What do you say to a game now?”
“What? Here?”
“Why not? I don’t know when I’ll get the chance again.” Elliot signaled to the waiter. Within seconds the table was cleared and wiped down. “You can’t appreciate the beauty of a set like this until you’ve actually grasped the pieces.” He began setting up the board. “I don’t think I’ve played you since you were seventeen.”
“Yeah, on the Staunton set.”
“Who would have believed our next game would be on the other side of the world?”
“You’re gonna crush me.”
“I’m out of practice too. I’ll even let you be white. A small but distinct advantage.”
Tristan placed the last few pieces on his side. “Sure.” He slid the pawn on the shiny marble board.
“Ah, the Ruy Lopez opening. Named after a Spanish priest, you know.”
Truth was, Tristan didn’t know Ruy Lopez from Jennifer Lopez. He’d never commanded or memorized the rote operations of the game. He had grasped the strategy of it though. And he was glad for the distraction. It gave him an opportunity to measure the words he’d use with Elliot.
“Did you hear Julie was accepted to Harvard medical?” Elliot asked, moving his piece.
Tristan sat up in his chair. “No, I didn’t know. That’s amazing.” He felt a sharp pang of regret that he hadn’t called his sister in so long. He would call her tonight and congratulate her. He’d tell her the story of Maiden Shina and how he got fleeced at the local market. She’d find that funny.
“Your father is over the moon.”
He was happy his father had at least one child who didn’t disappoint him.
“How’s Grams? Any updates?”
Elliot paused, his piece in midair. “When I spoke to her last, she said you had just called her.”
“I call her every week. She’s getting worse so I wasn’t sure if she’d remember our conversations. I take everything she says with a grain of salt.” These days, it was a few pounds of salt. After all, the woman insisted Tristan was in Poughkeepsie, despite his numerous attempts at explaining his actual location in Pakistan. Finally, he figured it might be better for her to go with Poughkeepsie. Poughkeepsie didn’t make the news as often.
“Alzheimer’s is a terrible disease. Your father found her an excellent caregiver and nurse so she can stay in her home.”
At one time, when he was too young to remember or give her the admiration she deserved, his grandmother had been on a list of the most powerful women in the country. She’d single-handedly drawn attention to causes people were happy to ignore, including education inequality in the public school system. She was one of the reasons he still thought of North Carolina as home. A few more moves, and Elliot captured Tristan’s pawn.
“How are things? Any adventures lately?” Tristan asked as he moved his bishop.
Elliot drummed his fingers on the table. “Not bad. I did a little hiking around Kala Patthar last summer. Well, truth is, I mostly enjoyed the views. I’ve been paying for that little excursion ever since.” He rubbed his back. “Adventures are meant for young men to accomplish and old men to criticize. Not the other way around.”
“You’re still in good shape.” Tristan gestured to all the white pieces on Elliot’s side. “Plus, you’re kicking my ass in chess.”
Elliot tapped his head. “What’s in here is definitely more limber than the rest of this.” As if to drive the point, he moved out his queen. “Check. I have you in four moves either way.”
“Possibly.” Tristan recognized shit-talking when he saw it. He hadn’t played in a long time, but in his analysis, there were still moves to be made. The game was far from won. He wasn’t about to hand it over.
“You can resign, you know. Doesn’t make you any less of a man.” The mocking challenge in Elliot’s voice invigorated Tristan.
“It does to me. I’m not resigning.” Tristan moved his king to safety. He steadied the board, trying to envision all the different possibilities while waiting for Elliot to take his turn. He closed his eyes and emptied his mind of everything. His failed quest. His niggling guilt over Granma El. His sorrow and remorse over Drew. Even his anger at Elliot over
the permit situation. Instead, he imagined the pieces and their potential paths.
“I’m retiring in a few months, Tristan.”
Tristan dropped the knight in his hand. “Really? I thought you loved it here.”
“Careful,” Eliot said, picking up the piece and examining it for chips. Once he was satisfied he placed in on the square Tristan would have moved to. “I do love my job, but I’m growing tired of it. I miss things.”
“Like what?”
Elliot looked around as if watching for listening ears. He leaned into the table. “Bacon and bourbon, two things you won’t find in a dry, Islamic country.”
“I can imagine.”
“Most of all I miss my friends and family.” The man’s voice had a sad lilt. He’d been in Pakistan for over ten years serving the embassy. He’d left after his divorce. “Take it from someone who knows. The time you miss with the people you love is the worst kind of waste.”
Tristan recognized the warning in Elliot’s statement was meant for him on a much deeper level. On the board, he seized an opportunity to take out Elliot’s rook. “What will you do when you retire? Somehow, I can’t picture you playing golf every afternoon.”
“Never was much for golf. I always joked with your father that it’s the reason he became the politician and not me.”
“Uh huh,” Tristan said, leveling the board by taking out the other black rook. He wondered if the golf game with the minister was the last round Elliot played.
“Your dad misses you by the way.”
“I doubt it. After mom’s funeral, he told me to leave and never come back. He blames me for Drew’s death.”
“That’s ridiculous. Where did you get such a foolish idea?”
“I guess it would have been when he said, ‘Andrew’s death is your fault, Tristan.’ The statement, even for a politician, was fairly clear.”
“He feels badly for the way he spoke to you. He was grieving. People say malicious things when they’re grieving.”
“When I told him my plans, he said if the mountain didn’t kill me, the Taliban would. He just hoped my face wouldn’t be on the evening news.” The optics would be bad for his upcoming senatorial race.
“Well, you are going to be in their territory.” Elliot waved his hand. “He’s concerned. He didn’t mean it. He tells me he’s tried to reach out to you, but you’re distant.”
“He wants a photo op for the campaign trail.”
“He wants his son back. He said things in the heat of the moment.”
Tristan had no response. In many ways, he agreed with his father. “I’m not angry with him. We both need space.”
“How much space do you need? You’ve put entire oceans and continents between you for years. I’d say you managed space quite well.”
“It’s your move.”
Elliot shook his head before moving his knight in a defensive position. “He’s already lost one son. At least give him a chance to be back in your life. And while you’re at it, call Julie more often too.”
“Every time I speak with her, she does what you’re doing.”
“Which is?”
“Trying to talk me out of it.”
“Out of what?”
“K2. Except in your case, you’re doing more than just talking, aren’t you?” They were even in pieces now. Tristan had a decent position on the board. In many ways, the conversation was a reflection of the actual game they played.
“What do you mean?”
“My appeal was denied. Your pal, the Minister of Expeditions, gave me an interesting lecture.”
“Well, I know him, but…”
“Stop it, Elliot. Neither of us has time for games.” Tristan chuckled and gestured to the board. “Well, except for the game we’re playing.”
“I must say, it’s turning into an interesting match.”
“Why are you doing this to me?”
With each sentence, they made moves and countermoves, neither man taking his eyes off the other.
Elliot didn’t relent. “You’re in no shape to climb the Savage Mountain.”
“The Sacred Mountain,” Tristan said, capturing the black bishop.
“The Killer Mountain,” Elliot countered, moving his knight out.
“We can do this all day. I’m in the best shape of my life.” That was true. Years of training and experience had more than proven that.
“I’m not referring to your physical shape.”
Tristan slammed his fist on the table. The pieces bounced but didn’t topple over. “I am fine.”
“Maybe you’re an expert on Everest, but K2 is a different story.”
Tristan captured Elliot’s other Bishop. “I made a promise to Drew.”
“You can’t be serious. Drew’s brain was bleeding out when he asked you.”
“That was just a repeat of the promise we made when we were kids. The vow I made didn’t die with him.”
“You know if anyone understands that, it’s me, and even I can’t defend you here. Jesus, Tristan, one in four people die on that mountain. Do you really want to risk it?”
“I’m aware of the stats. I’ve studied them. You’re not answering my question. Why are you blocking me?”
“Your father asked me to watch out for you, and this is the only way I know how. You’re like a second son to me. I’m your godfather. I won’t allow this, not as long as I have the power to stop it. Not to mention I helped Drew get his permit. I might as well have signed his death warrant. I won’t do that again.”
Tristan assessed the board. Using a hostile strategy, he’d managed to win quite a few of Elliot’s pieces, tipping the scales in his favor. “Here’s the thing, you won’t always have that power. You’re retiring, Uncle Elliot. Maybe you’ll have the same connections in the permit office a year from now, maybe two years, but three years? Four? I’ll come back and apply every single year until I get the damn permit. But truth be told, I might not be as ready as I am right now. I’m willing to risk it. Question is, are you?” He was hedging his bets here because the truth was he had enough saved for one more attempt after this.
“Careful not to get backed into a corner, Tristan. You keep missing the obvious threats.”
“Is that advice or a warning?”
“Both.” Elliot pointed to the board. “Your game play isn’t rusty. But it is sloppy.”
Tristan gestured to the black pieces that were now off the board. “I’m up by four pieces.”
“Spoken like the true reckless maverick you are. Position over possession, Tristan. That is the key to this game. It’s strategy, not attack.”
Both men were quiet for a time, each digesting the other’s statements. Elliot, a fierce and stubborn adversary, would not likely back down.
“It’s your move, Uncle Elliot,” Tristan said, breaking the awkward silence.
“You don’t even realize it.”
“What’s that?”
“The game is over.”
“I’m winning.”
Elliot shook his head. “You’re too cocky for your own good.” He moved his pawn one space. “Checkmate.”
It clicked into place like a key turning a lock. If it had occurred to him twenty minutes ago, he might have had a chance, but Elliot had held the upper hand the whole time.
Tristan laid down his king, conceding his defeat. He shook Elliot’s hand. “You win this game.” Tristan emphasized the last two words.
“Nice try.” Elliot clasped his hand and shook it firmly. “You know why I think chess is the greatest game ever invented?”
“Because you love the strategy.”
“That’s part of it, but a small part. The amazing thing about this game is that all the pieces are unequal and the board is metaphorically tilted. Some pieces clearly have more influence than others. Not u
nlike this life. But even the most powerful have their limitations and weaknesses. That makes anything possible, doesn’t it? Hell, even a pawn can win a game.”
“I guess.”
Elliot shook his head and adjusted his tie. “I’m getting carried away. In any case, you played well.”
“You said I was sloppy.”
“You were, but not without a few moments of brilliance. I’ll admit you surprised me. You actually challenged me a few times. You were a prodigy once. You could have been a grand master if you’d kept up.”
“I doubt it.”
“You always had this intense fire to succeed. It took me a while to finally recognize it wasn’t about chess, but a passion you carried in your soul. A part of your nature. I fear that very obsession is going to get you killed, but I also think you’d cease to live if the passion died out. It’s your Achilles’ heel and your Icarus’s wings rolled into one.”
Tristan knew two things. Elliot was kind of freaking him out, and he could really use a stiff drink, or ten, to get through this conversation. “If I promise not to fly too close to the sun, will you help me get the permit?”
Elliot reached into the breast pocket of his suit and took out an envelope. He slapped it on top of Tristan’s fallen king. Tristan opened it and unfolded the paper inside. He skipped over the lines written in Arabic and Urdu until he settled on the ones in English. “Is this what I think it is?”
“Your official permit for K2. You’re welcome.”
“Why now?”
“You won’t give up. It’s in your nature. If I can’t change your mind, then I can at least make sure you proceed with caution.”
Tristan clutched the piece of paper, his own personal golden ticket. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I have conditions.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Just three small stipulations. If you agree to them, the permit is all yours.”
Of course, there would be terms. Elliot was a lawyer. Tristan may be an explorer, but Elliot was a born negotiator. It was in his nature. Tristan waved his hand in the air. “State your terms.”
